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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 (in time)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: 'You know, if you'd spend a little less energy on your form and more on just getting into the air....'
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view, as well as enname and monanotlisa for coming through in a pinch.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was daylight when Rodney yawned and stretched, then flung the tangle of blankets to the foot of the bed. He kicked aside the jeans he'd dropped on the floor last night into a pile of laundry he needed to do at some point, then clicked off the electric blanket. He grabbed his favorite bathrobe hanging on the doorknob. Stepping over boxes, clothes, a skate sharpener, and a pile of magazines that had been knocked over in a sprawl across the floor, Rodney made his way to the window to peer through the curtains.
Frost rimmed the grass, but in the dirt beneath his window the green buds of crocuses had begun to appear. That had always meant just one thing. The World Championships were soon. Rodney rubbed his hands together.
Since he and John had practiced so late, they'd decided to cancel his morning session. Rodney could sleep in for a change. He wondered that he of all people would choose a profession of six-day weeks, where "seven a.m." equaled "sleeping in." But it was still, hmm, pleasant, having a morning to himself.
Slipping on a loose magazine, he cleared the mess and stepped over to the clear path from the bed to the doorway, then to the bathroom. He decided on a bath instead of a shower.
Once he had the water running (he tipped a little scented cube into the tub), Rodney crossed through the living room to the kitchen, the TV flickering blue with the sound off from the night before. He'd sat up late, cracking peanut shells, worrying about the "Sheppard problem" and how to bring that performance back. He was no closer to a solution, though he'd finished the peanuts, the flakes of shell scattered across the coffee table.
Teapot on the burner, he tied his bathrobe and went to get the newspaper. The morning was colder than it looked. The mist of Rodney's breath caught in the breeze.
On the front doorstep, on top of the newspaper, was a round quart of cider. With a little paper party hat perched on top. It took Rodney a moment to get the reference, and then he smiled, wondering when John had dropped it off.
Snickering, Rodney brought it inside. He turned off the teapot, carrying the cider and mug to the bathtub, putting the little hat on his forehead as he snuggled into the steaming water with a happy little hum.
~*~*~
Rodney waggled his fingers at his crew of four teenagers as they finished their lesson, the three girls tittering and whispering to each other as they pulled winter coats over their skating dresses. The one lone guy had his hand on his girlfriend's shoulder, guiding her off the ice. Rodney had yet to figure out if he was just doing this for his girlfriend or using her as an excuse to figure skate. He was unexpectedly good.
His wiry black curly hair was visible over the edge of the boards as he left with the girls, head balanced and straight, posture perfect. Either figure skating or past dance lessons, Rodney decided. He'd know when he finally met the kid's mom. Figure skating moms were a breed apart and not to be confused with the dance divas. With a name like Aiden, Rodney's money was on the ex-dancer mom.
With strong smooth strokes, Rodney carved a circle through the center of the empty rink. This was one place he'd always felt secure, sure of himself. The girls all told him he looked beautiful out here. His sister envied him. Rodney smiled in satisfaction, threw his fists out in a dramatic gesture, and tossed in some footwork.
It was the quiet part of the afternoon. Too late for the lunchtime skaters with boring day jobs, too early for the younger kids, whose schools let out hours after the high schools. Rodney's blades hissed along the ice at a break in the music.
The "Music of the Night" came on, and Rodney shook his head. John had a point about them overdoing the Phantom of the Opera this week. At least it wasn't Streisand. She had a wonderful voice, but her singing was all about her -- Rodney tipped into an extension, letting his leg circle down -- and she was always just ever-so-slightly behind the beat. You couldn't grandstand when you were being upstaged by your own music. That's why it was a mistake to skate to the Star-spangled Banner.
Rodney took a quick glance around. No one was there, so he put a little more energy into his skate. He swung his leg around in a pendulum turn, building speed three-hundred and sixty degrees, head high, then stomped the ice, using the momentum to land a double salchow with a grunt, his leg swept out behind him.
Bent with both hands on his knees, Rodney caught his breath.
"You know," said a familiar voice, "if you'd spend a little less energy on your form and more on just getting into the air...."
John sat perched on the edge of the boards, swinging his skates and munching from a bag of popcorn.
"I didn't see you." Rodney blinked.
"I know that."
"I, ah, don't have any lessons right now." Rodney pointed vaguely in the direction of the doors. "Cancellation."
"I know that, too."
"How long have you been there?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" John hopped down onto the ice and slid over. "Though I think that black kid's full of shit. He's definitely taken figure skating before." He held out the popcorn.
"You're not supposed to eat on the ice," Rodney told him half-heartedly, taking a handful.
"Yeah. Popcorn's the worst, too," John agreed, digging into the bag. "One kernel can flatten you. Let's scatter it before the hockey team gets here."
"No practice scheduled today," Rodney was forced to point out.
"Foiled again." John smirked. He shook the bag. "Waste of good popcorn anyway."
"We can do a lot of toe-pick assisted jumps," Rodney suggested. "Same effect. Less wasteful."
"Now you're talking." John bobbed his head in satisfaction. "I can see why they call you a genius. Though I'd add 'evil' to that."
Rodney snickered into the back of his hand. "There are a few stories about me."
"All lies and exaggerations no doubt," John said.
"They can't prove a thing." Rodney beamed. "So, what are you doing here? Other than plotting the demise of hockey players, that is."
"I thought we covered that."
Rodney frowned in confusion, mentally rewinding their conversation and finding no clues. "No...."
"I wanted to hear the Phantom of the Opera again," John non-explained, with a slow smile. He skated back towards the boards.
"Do you want more training time?" Rodney asked, mystified.
"I've been crowding into your schedule a lot lately."
"I can ask upstairs if they'll let you step on," Rodney suggested.
"Nah. I think I'll wait to wear out their welcome when an actual competition's on the line." John folded his arms behind his head. Then added with a wave like an afterthought, "As you were."
"Skating?"
"That's what it looked like. Thought I'd catch the live show." He held up the nearly empty bag and shook it. "I even brought popcorn."
Rodney warmed to the idea, preening. "Any requests?"
John leaned forward with a smile, an elbow on his knee. "Well, I'm rather partial to that Worlds program...."
"The Rimsky-Korsakov?"
John sat back with a rich sigh. "That's the one."
Music for you: Music of the Night - The Phantom of the Opera (Gerard Butler)
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Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17 (in time)
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: 'You know, if you'd spend a little less energy on your form and more on just getting into the air....'
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view, as well as enname and monanotlisa for coming through in a pinch. Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. A teasing friendship (and perhaps more?) developed between them, and a late night practice session turned sensual and intense... and more successful than expected. If only Rodney could get John to skate like that all the time.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was daylight when Rodney yawned and stretched, then flung the tangle of blankets to the foot of the bed. He kicked aside the jeans he'd dropped on the floor last night into a pile of laundry he needed to do at some point, then clicked off the electric blanket. He grabbed his favorite bathrobe hanging on the doorknob. Stepping over boxes, clothes, a skate sharpener, and a pile of magazines that had been knocked over in a sprawl across the floor, Rodney made his way to the window to peer through the curtains.
Frost rimmed the grass, but in the dirt beneath his window the green buds of crocuses had begun to appear. That had always meant just one thing. The World Championships were soon. Rodney rubbed his hands together.
Since he and John had practiced so late, they'd decided to cancel his morning session. Rodney could sleep in for a change. He wondered that he of all people would choose a profession of six-day weeks, where "seven a.m." equaled "sleeping in." But it was still, hmm, pleasant, having a morning to himself.
Slipping on a loose magazine, he cleared the mess and stepped over to the clear path from the bed to the doorway, then to the bathroom. He decided on a bath instead of a shower.
Once he had the water running (he tipped a little scented cube into the tub), Rodney crossed through the living room to the kitchen, the TV flickering blue with the sound off from the night before. He'd sat up late, cracking peanut shells, worrying about the "Sheppard problem" and how to bring that performance back. He was no closer to a solution, though he'd finished the peanuts, the flakes of shell scattered across the coffee table.
Teapot on the burner, he tied his bathrobe and went to get the newspaper. The morning was colder than it looked. The mist of Rodney's breath caught in the breeze.
On the front doorstep, on top of the newspaper, was a round quart of cider. With a little paper party hat perched on top. It took Rodney a moment to get the reference, and then he smiled, wondering when John had dropped it off.
Snickering, Rodney brought it inside. He turned off the teapot, carrying the cider and mug to the bathtub, putting the little hat on his forehead as he snuggled into the steaming water with a happy little hum.
Rodney waggled his fingers at his crew of four teenagers as they finished their lesson, the three girls tittering and whispering to each other as they pulled winter coats over their skating dresses. The one lone guy had his hand on his girlfriend's shoulder, guiding her off the ice. Rodney had yet to figure out if he was just doing this for his girlfriend or using her as an excuse to figure skate. He was unexpectedly good.
His wiry black curly hair was visible over the edge of the boards as he left with the girls, head balanced and straight, posture perfect. Either figure skating or past dance lessons, Rodney decided. He'd know when he finally met the kid's mom. Figure skating moms were a breed apart and not to be confused with the dance divas. With a name like Aiden, Rodney's money was on the ex-dancer mom.
With strong smooth strokes, Rodney carved a circle through the center of the empty rink. This was one place he'd always felt secure, sure of himself. The girls all told him he looked beautiful out here. His sister envied him. Rodney smiled in satisfaction, threw his fists out in a dramatic gesture, and tossed in some footwork.
It was the quiet part of the afternoon. Too late for the lunchtime skaters with boring day jobs, too early for the younger kids, whose schools let out hours after the high schools. Rodney's blades hissed along the ice at a break in the music.
The "Music of the Night" came on, and Rodney shook his head. John had a point about them overdoing the Phantom of the Opera this week. At least it wasn't Streisand. She had a wonderful voice, but her singing was all about her -- Rodney tipped into an extension, letting his leg circle down -- and she was always just ever-so-slightly behind the beat. You couldn't grandstand when you were being upstaged by your own music. That's why it was a mistake to skate to the Star-spangled Banner.
Rodney took a quick glance around. No one was there, so he put a little more energy into his skate. He swung his leg around in a pendulum turn, building speed three-hundred and sixty degrees, head high, then stomped the ice, using the momentum to land a double salchow with a grunt, his leg swept out behind him.
Bent with both hands on his knees, Rodney caught his breath.
"You know," said a familiar voice, "if you'd spend a little less energy on your form and more on just getting into the air...."
John sat perched on the edge of the boards, swinging his skates and munching from a bag of popcorn.
"I didn't see you." Rodney blinked.
"I know that."
"I, ah, don't have any lessons right now." Rodney pointed vaguely in the direction of the doors. "Cancellation."
"I know that, too."
"How long have you been there?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" John hopped down onto the ice and slid over. "Though I think that black kid's full of shit. He's definitely taken figure skating before." He held out the popcorn.
"You're not supposed to eat on the ice," Rodney told him half-heartedly, taking a handful.
"Yeah. Popcorn's the worst, too," John agreed, digging into the bag. "One kernel can flatten you. Let's scatter it before the hockey team gets here."
"No practice scheduled today," Rodney was forced to point out.
"Foiled again." John smirked. He shook the bag. "Waste of good popcorn anyway."
"We can do a lot of toe-pick assisted jumps," Rodney suggested. "Same effect. Less wasteful."
"Now you're talking." John bobbed his head in satisfaction. "I can see why they call you a genius. Though I'd add 'evil' to that."
Rodney snickered into the back of his hand. "There are a few stories about me."
"All lies and exaggerations no doubt," John said.
"They can't prove a thing." Rodney beamed. "So, what are you doing here? Other than plotting the demise of hockey players, that is."
"I thought we covered that."
Rodney frowned in confusion, mentally rewinding their conversation and finding no clues. "No...."
"I wanted to hear the Phantom of the Opera again," John non-explained, with a slow smile. He skated back towards the boards.
"Do you want more training time?" Rodney asked, mystified.
"I've been crowding into your schedule a lot lately."
"I can ask upstairs if they'll let you step on," Rodney suggested.
"Nah. I think I'll wait to wear out their welcome when an actual competition's on the line." John folded his arms behind his head. Then added with a wave like an afterthought, "As you were."
"Skating?"
"That's what it looked like. Thought I'd catch the live show." He held up the nearly empty bag and shook it. "I even brought popcorn."
Rodney warmed to the idea, preening. "Any requests?"
John leaned forward with a smile, an elbow on his knee. "Well, I'm rather partial to that Worlds program...."
"The Rimsky-Korsakov?"
John sat back with a rich sigh. "That's the one."
Music for you: Music of the Night - The Phantom of the Opera (Gerard Butler)
[Previous][Next]
